


Check, Recheck

by Echo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Friendship, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 20:32:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11387862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echo/pseuds/Echo
Summary: Mycroft Holmes has been tired and unpredictable since the incident at Sherrinford. It has been noticed by some important people.Anthea has called in Greg Lestrade to resolve the issue.Greg has no idea what he's doing here.(Strictly friendship here, although nothing to preclude future romance if that's your preference)





	Check, Recheck

**Author's Note:**

> Prompting meme fill from Anon here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.dreamwidth.org/75973.html?thread=260553925#cmt260553925  
>  _Sherlock wasn't being glib when he described Mycroft as OCD. Mycroft does have OCD, very carefully managed and controlled OCD...except, since Sherinford he's been having difficulty. Anthea eventually calls on Greg (or Sherlock) for help._  
>  I do not have OCD. I have never met anyone with OCD. If I have made any mistakes in my representation of OCD, I want to sincerely apologize. It seems like an incredibly challenging thing to live with, and people who deal with it have my utmost respect.

"Mr Holmes' behavior has caused some concern of late," Anthea said, as always preferring to look at her phone rather than the man she was speaking to. "He has not ventured past his front door in over a week. He has shown signs of... Irritation, when things have not gone smoothly. He has missed appointments. We suspect he is not sleeping well."

Greg Lestrade looked at her in disbelief. "That's all? He's not high? He's not hurting himself? He's just... Irritable?"

Anthea looked up at him, eyebrow raised, and replied with a short nod. Greg shook his head and chuckled. "Honestly, 'irritation' is better than most of us hope for on a good day. He's probably just got himself a tricky case. He does that; stops eating, stops sleeping, makes a general mess of his life, then when it's all solved he crashes for a few days and everything goes back to normal. Or, you know, normal for him. You won't get much change by sending me in there."

Anthea looked momentarily nonplussed, then returned her gaze to her phone.

"Wrong Mr Holmes, Detective Inspector."

The car pulled up outside a posh but otherwise unremarkable building. Lestrade didn't pay it much heed though, his thoughts instead consumed by a rapid replay of the last five minutes of conversation.

"The doorman is expecting you." Anthea said, as the driver opened Greg's door.

"Wait... Mycroft?" he asked, having found himself unable to think or any other person they could possibly be talking about.

"Is also expecting you, yes. Although he may be less amenable to your visit. Take these." she passed him the two large paper bags which had been resting on the seat beside her, "A peace offering. It's his normal order, from his preferred restaurant. We had to guess your tastes."

"I'm sure it'll be fine. You lot are good guessers." Greg answered absentmindedly as he stepped out of the car. Anthea smiled as though she had been paid a generous compliment. The driver moved to close the door, but Greg caught it.

"Wait, why am I here?" he asked. "Why not Sherlock? Or his parents? Or one of his friends? Why not you?"

Anthea made eye contact then, a smile gracing her lips that made her look oddly sad.

"Because he trusts you. And because you have earned yourself a reputation as a Holmes whisperer. Good luck, Detective Inspector."

\--------

Dinner was a surreal affair. Mycroft, despite clearly being wretchedly tired, was the perfect gentleman. He welcomed his guest, served the food on china plates which looked like proper antique rather than just old, and made polite conversation. A few times he excused himself to check on something or other upstairs, often at odd moments mid-conversation, but nothing that couldn't be easily explained by Mycroft being a very important man with a great many fingers in a great many pies.

Greg had been right about one thing though. Anthea's ability to guess his tastes was flawless. The meal was delightful, and he found himself relaxing despite himself.

"Feel like watching something? I spotted a few films on your shelf as I came through."

Mycroft smiled tightly. "I don't really watch films often any more. Perhaps you would rather..."

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed once. It had been doing that all evening, a single chime every fifteen minutes, and then multiple chimes on the hour. Greg wondered if it did that all night. Could be a very simple explanation for Mycroft's sleeplessness.

"I'm sorry, I must attend to something." Mycroft said with an apologetic nod. "Please, help yourself to the television, I'm sure you'll find something to keep us entertained."

"Cheers," Greg said to Mycroft's back as the man headed upstairs once again. Lestrade flicked the TV on, clicked through a few channels until he found a football match, then settled into the delightfully soft sofa.

Mycroft returned only a few minutes later. "Are you a fan?" he asked, gesturing to the screen.

"Of course. Arsenal all the way. I take it you're not?"

Mycroft smiled that same tight smile. "It's not a particular areas of expertise, but I'm open to trying new things."

Greg grinned and patted the spot next to him on the sofa. "No worries, anything you don't understand just ask. I'm always happy to induct a new fan."

The game was not going especially well, but it could have been worse. The damn clock chimed again just as the goalie blocked another shot. Greg was about to explain his disappointment to Mycroft, only to discover that the man was out of his chair and halfway up the stairs again. Greg looked at the clock, then back at Mycroft's retreating back.

He wondered.

The next fifteen minutes Greg spent only half watching the match, keeping one eye on the clock instead. Almost the exact moment the minute hand hit twelve, Mycroft was up again, murmuring polite apologies.

So that was weird.

The pattern repeated itself twice more over the next half hour.

"Mind if I come with?" he asked, casually, when Mycroft next stood to leave. The quarter hour had coincided with a break in the telecast, an advertisement for a burger restaurant playing in its place. The request wasn't entirely without justification.

Mycroft considered him for a few seconds, then nodded curtly. They headed up the stairs, around a corner, to an unremarkable door that looked more like a linen cupboard than a room.

Inside were a half dozen screens, CCTV of various locations in and around the house. Mycroft sat at the keyboard and gestured to one screen in particular. It showed the gate. Greg watched as Mycroft typed something in. There was a small light on a box on a pillar in the frame that Greg hadn't paid any real heed to, at least until it went off. Barely a second later it went on again.

"It's quite easy for someone to loop footage of areas like this. Not much activity normally, little of note. By cycling the security net at this node, I can confirm that the system is live."

"Clever." Remarked Greg, even though he found the who scenario somewhat absurd.

"Then, to ensure that the camera itself hasn't been tampered with..." Mycroft typed a few more things. The screen flicked off, and then on again. "There. Secure."

"Right, sure." Greg agreed, even more confused now. "But... Why do you have to do it so often?"

"I like to have confidence in my safety and the safety of my guests. I'm sure you understand."

Greg wasn't sure he did. "Right. That's it then? We head back down now?"

"Indeed."

\-----

"Just wait until the break," Greg said, the next time the clock chimed. "Won't be long. Then I can come up and keep you company."

"The sentiment is appreciated, but I don't require supervision. I'll be back momentarily."

"Just a couple of minutes. What could possibly happen to your security system that can't wait two minutes?" When Mycroft looked unconvinced, he tried instead, "Humor me?"

Mycroft, ever the gentleman, smiled politely and nodded. "Of course." He sat down again, but his eyes were glued to the clock, not the game.

Barely two minutes later, with no commercial break in sight, Mycroft stood silently and moved to the staircase. Greg didn't comment. He continued to not comment when Mycroft returned a few minutes later and resumed his spot on the sofa.

He did break his silence ten minutes later though, when another chime had Mycroft up again.

"Four minutes." Greg said, reaching out to brush Mycroft's sleeve, but deliberately not catching it. He had no doubt that Mycroft could be dangerous if he felt trapped.

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft answered superciliously. 

"Wait four more minutes, then go and check. You lasted two minutes last time, what's two more?"

Mycroft blinked slowly at him with a calculating gaze that would have sent half of Greg's division cowering.

"What exactly do you think is going on here, Detective Inspector?" He asked slowly, dangerously.

"I think we're watching a game, and we're getting to a good bit."

"And I think you're not the fool you like to play for my brother. You've made a deduction?"

"A deduction? Like Sherlock? Nah, he likes to make me play that game sometimes, when he's bored. I never win of course."

"You are a police officer though. You have... Insights." His voice was icy. "Share them."

Greg tapped his finger against his thigh absentmindedly for a few seconds. This could go badly. Very badly. But then, when had that ever stopped him?

"You're clearly knackered." He hazarded. "Could be that you've been too busy to sleep, but the fact that you're sitting here watching a game rather than upstairs in your office or your bed says that busy is not the problem. So something getting you up at all hours. How am I doing so far?"

"All rather self evident, but not incorrect." The iciness was still there, but there was something else which Greg couldn't quite name yet. He took another deep breath. 

"You've been up out of your seat every fifteen minutes since I got here. When I stopped you last time though, you couldn't take your eyes off the clock, fidgeting like your brother does when he thinks he's missing something. I've heard Sherlock make a couple of digs over the years about OCD, mostly just dismissed them as him being a prat at the time. But then, when he wants to wound someone he likes to do it with the truth, so there's that."

"His tongue is sharp, but his mind is sharper. He rarely has to resort to lies to hurt people." Mycroft acknowledged. Greg thought briefly that enough had been said, but Mycroft persisted. "And the security system?"

Greg nodded. "Got to have been installed years ago. The bad sleeping only happened recently though, last few weeks. I'd wager only since the shit hit the fan at that super secret gaol you've got out in the middle of the ocean. That song and dance you do upstairs, turning things on and off again, it probably started as a way to soothe whatever messed up thoughts you were having about your mad sister. Now it's gotten out of control."

He paused for a moment, because this was the part where he was fully expecting to get a fist to the jaw. "People have noticed, and you don't let people notice things you don't want them to. You could have kept this a secret if you really wanted to, but you let Anthea see. And then you let me sit here and eat with you, watch a game sitting next to you, knowing full well I'd spot something was up. You want help, but you don't know how to ask for it."

He was silent then, for a good six seconds. Then, "How'd I do, Mister Holmes?"

Mycroft closed his eyes for a little too long to be called blinking. "You're spending far too much time with my brother, Detective Inspector. He is rubbing off on you."

Probably the closest he was going to get to an admission. Greg nodded, leaning forward.

"You know what else?" He asked. In for a penny, and all that.

"Please, enlighten me."

Greg could name what he'd heard in Mycroft's voice earlier now. It was bone weariness.

"Whatever it is that has you doing this, you can beat it. Because the clock chimed seven minutes ago, and you haven't left yet."

Mycroft's jaw tightened. Then he turned and headed up the stairs.

\-----

Mycroft failed to return by the time the next chime rolled over. Greg glanced at the clock, then the screen, then back at the clock. He wondered idly if Mycroft might be ordering a hit on him; leave no witnesses. 

The man was proud and put together, and proud of being put together... But his exhaustion had left him vulnerable. Greg was quite certain that having a relative stranger for an audience was making a hard situation even harder. It was entirely possible that their earlier conversation had made things a hundred times worse. All that aside though, Greg was still a copper. He'd seen first hand what happened when good people in pain made stupid choices, and he wasn't keen to see any more of that tonight.

He heaved himself up off the ridiculously comfy sofa and made his way up the staircase towards the control room where he was quite certain he would find Mycroft.

He was correct, but only in part. He turned the corner to see the man on the floor, back to the wall outside the room in question. He looked small, and tense, and utterly wretched. And then he looked up.

"I didn't go in." He said, simply.

Greg nodded, feigning understanding.

"Good. That's good, right?"

"Hmm."

Greg sat himself down next to Mycroft, wincing as his knee cracked on the way down. He was getting too old to be sitting on floors. He let his knee tilt a little to the left, so that it made contact with Mycroft's. It seemed less presumptuous than wrapping an arm around the man's shoulder would have been, even if that was what his gut was telling him to do.

Greg watched him then with his interrogator's eye. Every muscle in the man's body was tense, his fingers shaking almost imperceptibly. His breathing had the kind of rhythm born of a conscious effort to breathe normally. Even so, every few moments, it would catch very slightly.

Greg budged up a little closer, but still said nothing.

"You are here because you are uncommonly good at what you do." Mycroft said suddenly, voice soft, gaze downward.

Greg blinked, a little lost by the non-sequitur. At this point though, he figured it was best to just roll with it. "Yeah? You got some crimes that need solving?" He saw a flicker of eyelashes as Mycroft closed his eyes. 

"You were wondering why Anthea called on you tonight. It is for the same reason I call on you so often to help with my brother. You are uncommonly good at this; being kind. You make people feel that they have value, and you make people want to prove to you that they have value."

"The way I hear it you run half the British Government. That's pretty high up there, value wise. And that's not even considering what you mean to your family."

Mycroft looked up, tired and thoughtful.

"It is truly a shame that you only meet criminals after they have wronged society. I feel that if we could somehow invert that arrangement, a large portion of the criminal class would turn a new leaf simply to avoid disappointing you."

Greg's eyes crinkled with amusement. "I dunno, seems like that would make Sherlock pretty miserable."

"Yes, I suppose it would."

There was silence then for a few moments, then Mycroft looked away again.

"It is a skill I have never been able to master."

"What's that?"

"Kindness."

Greg gave Mycroft a nudge with his shoulder, jostling him very softly. "I dunno, I've seen how you are with Sherlock. You love him to bits, you can't help it."

Mycroft responded with a huff that might, charitably, have been called a laugh. "I care very much for my brother, I cannot deny that, but love is not the same thing kindness. Sherlock is being generous when he calls me manipulative and controlling. I am both of those things, and much worse. I do not know how to be kind, as evidenced recently by the results of my attempts over the years."

Lestrade considered that for a few moments. There was certainly some measure of truth to the words. Neither Holmes brother could really be described as instinctively kind. But the self loathing was misplaced and excessive.

"Have you ever considered that maybe you're just overthinking it?" he suggested gently.

Mycroft gave Lestrade a wry look. The kind of look which perfectly expressed that stating the blatantly obvious wasn't going to help matters. Greg responded by giving him a very slightly cheeky half smile and another shoulder nudge.

"I'm no expert of course, but I'd say that sitting here dwelling on the one thing in the history of the universe where you made a mistake is probably not doing wonders for your mental health." He sighed when that garnered no response. "Okay, new plan. We're both too old to be sitting on the floor in a breezy hallway late at night. Let's get you to bed, yeah? You look wrecked, and that's _me_ being generous. I'll kip on the sofa, if that's okay?"

Mycroft took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "It doesn't stop just because I'm tired you know."

"Yeah, I reckon it doesn't." Greg agreed sympathetically, but stood up anyway, reaching his hand out. "Reckon being tired doesn't help much though. Come on, it's getting on towards the witching hour."

Mycroft, after far too long without rest, took Greg's hand without challenge.

\-----

It was that blasted chiming clock that woke him, but it was the sunlight streaming through the window which put to rest any thoughts of sleeping in. Greg had a nasty crick in his neck and the beginnings of a not-quite-enough-sleep headache, but his brain was awake now and it had just gone seven. He wandered into the kitchen, put the kettle on, and set about making tea.

A few minutes later, hoping to be proven wrong, he opened the door to the security control room. His hopes went unanswered. Mycroft Holmes was asleep in the chair.

Greg pressed his lips together, considering the scene for a moment. He was loathe to wake the man who was already desperately sleep deprived... But sleeping here, like that, was not doing him any favors either.

The choice was taken from him a moment later though, when a car on the street honked a particularly loud horn. Mycroft roused instantly, hair disheveled and a pink pressure mark showing on one cheek where it had been pressed into his sleeve. It took barely a second for him to register where he was, then that again to register who he was with.

Greg saw the moment the shame settled into Mycroft's eyes.

"Brought you some tea." He said, dropping the small tray onto a clear section of desk.

"I did try..."

"Hey," Greg interrupted, using his very best Head Of Department voice. Mycroft looked up, fatigue battling with confusion and embarrassment. "Hey," Greg said again, softer this time, crouching down to eye level. He held up a teacup, and waited until Mycroft took it. Then he dropped a hand onto the man's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"It's okay. I understand. You'll get there, Sunshine. You'll get there."


End file.
